


Grand pas d’action

by junetangerine (culuyetille)



Series: ∞ 00Q AUs [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ballet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 02:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8037979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/culuyetille/pseuds/junetangerine
Summary: Out of all the petulant, self-important, insufferably bullheaded ballet dancers Q had dealt with in his 12 years as a lighting designer and technician, James Bond was the absolute worst.





	Grand pas d’action

Out of all the petulant, self-important, insufferably bullheaded ballet dancers Q had dealt with in his 12 years as a lighting designer and technician, James Bond was the absolute worst.  
  
It was sort of _de rigueur_ for main dancers in big companies to be on the difficult side, and upon being hired by the Royal Ballet Q had foreseen quite a bit of ego-managing, but he honestly had not expected it to be this bloody awful. Bond was constantly late for rehearsals, had a million things to say about costumes and props and seemed all but immune to the director’s intimidating frown.  
All of it, Q could’ve lived with, if the bastard wasn’t so keen on improvisation. Yes, he was brilliant and his execution soulful and impeccable, but did that really entitle him to shit all over other people’s time and effort? Q emphatically thought NOT.  
He said as much to Eve over their Thursday pint, but instead of the sympathy he’d expected from the head choreographer, she just laughed it off.  
  
“Oh love, you’re going about this the wrong way.”  
“I’ve gone about it every way I can think of, short of dropping something heavy on his big head,” he mumbled into his glass. He had reasoned, pleaded, berated and cajoled, to no avail.  
  
“Really?”  
She raised an eyebrow at him, lips curled in a mean smirk.  
  
Oh. Of course.  
  
“I suppose I haven’t been a tosser back at him yet.”  
“That’s the spirit!” She raised her glass in a toast.  
  
A week and five rehearsals later, Q was absorbed in calibrating the control console when someone cleared their throat obnoxiously behind him. As expected, it was Bond. He looked thunderous, the flexed muscles of his tense neck, arms and torso clearly visible beneath the form-fitting leotard. Q avoided considering what it said about him, that he found the sight rather… stimulating. Instead, he put on his blandest expression.  
  
“What can I do for you, Mr. Bond?”  
“Your job.”  
“Beg your pardon?”  
“Don’t. I’m the principal dancer and there wasn’t a single spot accompanying my adage.”  
“Oh, that,” Q waved a hand dismissively.  
  
Bond continued to glower at him. Q tilted his head, trying (and failing) not to sound like the complete little shit he knew he was being (justifiably).  
  
“I can see why you would think that I work _for_ you, but I’m actually trying to accomplish something of my own here.”  
“By making me invisible?”  
“Partly, yes. But also…” He straightened his sleeves. He finally seemed to have Bond’s attention, as opposed to all of their previous conversations, in which the man had practically stared right through him. “Light tells its own story.”  
“People come to the theatre to see dancing.”  
“No, they come to see a spectacle. To have an experience.”  
“A _dancing_ experience.”  
“Well, you’re not dancing in an empty room, are you now? You’re dancing to someone’s music, and I’m composing a chromatic narrative to the sum of that music and your movement. Do you see?”  
  
Bond took his time considering it. When he did speak, something in his stance was a little less belligerent.  
  
“And for that you need me to be where and when Moneypenny determined I’d be.”  
“That would be ideal, yes. But,” he cut right through the protest he could see forming on Bond’s lips, “I don’t mind a challenge. As long as you’re not working as though in spite of my work, I think we can make it… well, work,” he finished, his certainty wavering. It _was_ Bond’s face in 10m banners draped over the front of the Opera House and across every website, magazine and newspaper advertising their current production, Q’s very first with the Royal Ballet.    
  
Bond stared at him for a long moment, then his eyes travelled down Q’s body and back up, and he all but purred, “Hmm. I can see us working well together.”  
  
Q rolled his eyes.  
  
“Please tell me you’re not trying to shag your way out of being a prat.”  
“A rather bendy prat,” Bond informed him in an overly helpful tone.  
“So what? You knob me over that console, and then I’ll magically be able to predict where you’ll pirouette next and have a glorious spotlight on you at all times as you dazzle us all with your talent?”  
“That would be ideal, yes. But I’d settle for a shag to clear the air and then trying to work out something for the show with direction cues on my part and your equipment’s response time.”  
Q could only repeat in a strangled voice, “A shag to clear the air?”  
“I don’t think you’re nearly as opposed to it as you’re trying to make yourself believe,” the man said, with a pointed glance at Q’s crotch.  
  
Bond may be a smug tit, but he was right. Between the tension about their confrontation and a physical attraction that hadn’t been completely squashed by weeks worth of annoyance at having his work disregarded, Q’s body was more than a little aroused. He knew from watching the man perform that Bond was strong, agile and limber, and if Q liked a bit of rough handling, that was nobody’s– what the fuck was he doing? He couldn’t let the conversation be derailed like this, or Bond would never respect him. He mustered what was left of his dignity.  
  
“Let’s talk tomorrow, after rehearsals.”  
  
Bond agreed with a nod and a smile that promised trouble.  
  
Q gracefully waited for him to leave before collapsing on a chair. Goodness gracious. He was going to murder Eve Moneypenny.  
  
* * *  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I know next to nothing about ballet and did only the most cursory of researches to write this. I am aware that dancers tend to be highly disciplined and dedicated, but since this is a story about James Bond, I took some liberties.
> 
> If you have 3 minutes to spare and would like a visual reference for this story, watch former Royal Ballet dancer Sergei Polunin be absolutely amazing: https://youtu.be/5CW2mFBAPWM
> 
> EDIT: March 16th, 2017: I've decided this fic will stand as is. I had something sketched for a second chapter, but other 00Q projects take precedence and in truth, all I really set out to do with this was etch in everybody's mind the image of Bond in a form-fitting outfit and Q foaming at the mouth at how he can't help being distracted by it ;)


End file.
